Stuart MacBride - Close to the Bone

‘Already? Who’d we get? ’

‘Superintendent Smith, Wee Hairy DS Kelly, and DS Watson.’

A groan. ‘And are the two of you on speaking terms this week, or are you going to sit and glower and snipe at each other all through the review? Because that would make it even more fun.’

‘Hey, I got you chips, remember? ’

‘Because things aren’t bad enough with the bloody ACC nipping my arse every five minutes. “Oh the press are up in arms.” “Oh the Chief Constable’s no’ happy.” “Oh if only Finnie was here. .” Aye, like the frog-faced tosser could just turn up, wave his magic fairy wand, and solve everything.’ Steel skewered a chip, then frowned at it drooping there on the end of her plastic fork. ‘Any tomato sauce in the bag? ’

‘Another thing: a couple of Forman’s associates said he was getting professional therapy. Give you odds on Agnes was too. Might be worth following up on? ’

‘Why’d you no’ get any tomato sauce? How am I supposed to eat chips with no tomato sauce? ’

‘Macaroni cheese with tomato sauce is disgusting. What about a TV appeal? ’

‘Yeah, well. . you eat Marmite. That’s like a wee jar full of Satan’s turds.’

‘She’s still in the city: she used Anthony Chung’s cards. They’re holed up somewhere, so someone’s bound to spot them.’

‘Know how they make Marmite? ’

He scooped up another chunk of cheddar-covered tuna. ‘I’ll get onto the media department. See if they can set something up.’

‘There’s this mine in darkest England and at the bottom of the mine there’s a big crack in the earth.’

‘Not listening.’

‘And the Devil sticks his arse up through the crack, and they send this bunch of murderers, bastards, and rapists down there to scrape up the lumps and bung them in jars.’

‘No way Roy Forman can afford to see a private therapist, so whoever’s treating him: it’s on the NHS. Shouldn’t be too hard to track down.’

‘It’s true, there’s video of them doing it on the internet.’ She drummed her fingers on the desktop. ‘Come on, I know you’ve got some in your desk.’

‘I’m not giving you tomato sauce.’

A little smile tugged one side of Steel’s face upwards. ‘Do you a swap.’ She leaned down and clunked open the bottom drawer of her return unit. When she straightened up there was a rectangular box in her hand, about the size of a thermos flask, wrapped in anonymous brown paper. She waggled it at him. ‘Told you I got a present for you.’

Logan put his plastic fork down and shrank back in his seat. Frowning. ‘What is it? ’

‘Tomato sauce first, present later.’

‘Right. . Well. .’ Logan stood, gathered up his baked potato. ‘I’ll just. . go get that then.’

And escape.

Rennie gave a huge yawn, showing off his fillings, then slumped into the visitor’s chair. ‘Gah. .’

Logan looked up from the stack of overtime, expenses, and budget request forms that had magically appeared in his in-box. ‘If you’re here for a moan, you can bugger right back out again.’

‘Been round every drop-in centre and hostel in town, and no one’s caught so much as a whiff of Scotty Scabs.’

He checked his watch: one forty-five, which meant Henry Scott would have a decent head start. ‘That’s strange — he was sitting on the steps of Gilcomston Church when I spoke to him an hour ago.’

Rennie stared, a smile dawning across his face. ‘You found him? Cool, is he in the cells, because-’

‘I said I spoke to him, didn’t say I’d arrested him.’

The smile disappeared. ‘But I’ve been looking for him for ages! How am I-’

‘I needed information on Roy Forman; gave my word I wouldn’t do him for the shoplifting.’

‘But-’

‘If you get off your backside and hurry over there, you might still catch him. Otherwise. .’ Shrug.

Rennie scrambled out of his seat, reaching the door just in time for it to swing open. He jerked to a halt, staring at Chalmers. ‘Oh. It’s you.’

She stuck her chin out. ‘DS Rennie.’

He folded his arms. ‘DS Chalmers.’

God help us. Logan grabbed a biro from his desk and chucked it at Rennie’s back. It bounced right between the silly sod’s shoulder blades. ‘Thought you were in a hurry.’

‘Yes. Right. Fine.’ Rennie pulled his shoulders back and marched from the room, not even looking at Chalmers.

She pursed her lips, raised an eyebrow, then closed the door behind him.

Logan went back to his forms. ‘Steel about? ’

‘She’s sloped off to get a quick cigarette in before the review.’

Small mercies.

He moved on to the next form in the pile. ‘How did you get on? ’

Chalmers dragged out her notebook. ‘Far as we can tell, there’s no record of Roy Forman being referred for counselling in the last two years. He saw a therapist for about eighteen months after he got back from Kuwait, but that was it.’

So much for that. ‘Never mind, what about-’

‘ But . .’ Theatrical pause. ‘I did manage to track down the head of psychiatric care at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary, and he says that there’s a handful of therapists offering free treatment to the long-term homeless and victims of violent crime.’

‘Did you. .? ’

She peeled a Post-it note from her book and placed it on Logan’s desk. ‘Thought you might ask.’

Four names, one of them instantly recognizable: Dr David Goulding. Giving free therapy sessions to the homeless. Poor sods. Each of the doctors on the list had a telephone number picked out in careful numerals beneath it.

Chalmers flipped over the page in her notebook. ‘According to Agnes Garfield’s parents she was undergoing treatment as part of an experimental trial programme at Aberdeen University. Something about a comparative benefit analysis of cognitive behaviour therapy and medication.’ Another Post-it note joined the first, this one with a single name in the middle: Prof. Richard Marks. ‘I tried talking to him, but he’s squealing patient-doctor privilege. We could get a warrant? ’

‘We could do that,’ Logan chucked the form back on top of his in-tray and stood, ‘or we could try the old two birds, one stone, routine.’

‘ . .and when I read the script, I fell in love with it. Of course I’d adored the books as a wee girl, I mean, who didn’t, right? I always knew it’d make a great film, but I never thought I’d be lucky enough to be in it! ’

Logan’s manky Fiat Punto bounced and thrummed over the cobbles on College Bounds, past the dirty beige-and-grey stonework of King’s College — the big vaulted crown on top of the bell tower swathed in scaffolding and gauzy material like some massive spider’s web.

Chalmers scowled out from behind the steering wheel. ‘It’s all double yellows. .’

‘ Wow. I know .’ The DJ’s voice had more cheese in it than Steel’s macaroni. ‘ Right, you’re listening to Jimmy’s Late Lunch , and I’m here with Nichole Fyfe. Yeah, that’s right, local girl made good, and full-on Hollywood superstar: Nichole Fyfe! How cool is that? ’

A silky laugh. ‘ I’m definitely not a superstar, Jimmy. Dame Judi Dench is a superstar, Robbie Coltrane is a superstar, Morgan Mitchell is a superstar. I’m just a wee girl from Kincorth hoping no one’s going to start wondering what on earth I’m doing hanging about with all these great people. ’

Logan pointed through the windscreen. ‘Keep going. Might be a couple of spaces further up.’

‘ So, are you going to pick another track for us, Nichole? ’

‘ You bet, Jimmy. This is a song that meant a lot to me when I was growing up: it’s Eminem with “The Real Slim Shady”. ’